I met with an old friend the other day. The last time I’ve seen her was several years ago and it’s funny how time changes things–how much we no longer remain who we once were. We went to a restaurant for dinner and caught up over the years we’ve missed. Vaguely discussing about what’s happened in our lives and how we are currently doing now.
She told me she’s been diagnosed with stage 2 lymphoma cancer and it shocked me. Up until that point, I had no idea because of how happy she acted over dinner. The entire hour or so I was unable detect any sort of sadness or grief. Her very demeanor emitted joy and contentment. I asked her how she’s been dealing with this so well and of course, in the beginning she didn’t, but she told me that she has hope.
At this point, I couldn’t help but question my own hope. Where does it come from? Why do I have so little of it? Here is this girl who has cancer yet she’s more happy and hopeful with her life than I am. I have been granted the life to wake up, draw breath, and live on. Yet, something inside of me can’t find the purpose or motivation. Am I just ungrateful? Or, perhaps too dramatic and sensitive? I don’t know. But whatever it is, I wish I could find the way she does it. After that day, I was left with a rather depressing feeling, but also a convicted one. If she can find hope then it has to be possible for me as well.
John, let’s do this.